


The Road To Salvation Begins Tonight

by NoGimmicksNeeded



Series: The Path To Eden Is Clear To Those Who Have Faith [2]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Enemies might be a strong word, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2019-11-29 12:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18223031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoGimmicksNeeded/pseuds/NoGimmicksNeeded
Summary: A new Junior Deputy is bringing the fight to John Seed, and he is determined to drag her into salvation, kicking and screaming if need be. The fact that the Voice commands him to save her from suffering doesn't make his struggle any easier, and neither does Joseph's advice."You must love them, John," he says.As if it were that simple.





	1. Forgive Me Father For I Have Sinned

 

John remembers hearing about the new deputy long before the last few of his remaining silos go up in smoke.

It's Faith who'd mentioned her first, weeks ago. She'd told him of some woman, freshly deputized by Sheriff Whitehorse and set loose upon the county. Armed with nothing but a bow and her wits, she'd miraculously managed to sneak out from the Henbane, despite Faith's ever tightening grasp choking the life out of the Resistance, slowly and softly, like a silk scarf.

John finds the circumstance of her departure _highly_ questionable, but dwelling on it is bound to result in a headache, so, for the longest time, he doesn't think about it at all.

Dismissing Faith's warning eventually leads to a headache, too, but hindsight is twenty-twenty, he thinks, squinting at his YES sign, which now reads more like _YE_ than anything else. He makes a mental note to get Faith to send her angels over and fix it before it becomes an embarrassment. It is _her_ fault, after all.

It's hardly surprising the new deputy heads straight for Holland Valley. Not like she's spoiled for choice, exactly. The Mountains now stand stronger than ever, a unified front against anyone foolish enough to risk drawing the ire of Jacob and his wife. Going back to take out sister dearest would be somewhat counterproductive, considering the deputy's valiant escape and the effort it must've taken. She must realize Faith would probably be less gracious the second time around, too.

So, she goes off and stirs shit up in John's own backyard, which makes her exclusively _his_ problem from here on out.

He seeks out The Father for guidance. It's not an easy decision to make, but after the last time there's no room for failure, not when Joseph's disappointment remains a wound that stubbornly refuses to heal. _I'm doing something wrong_ , John remembers telling Jacob once, and things have not gotten any clearer since. If anything, the sinking feeling in his stomach increases with each outpost taken, with each truck that doesn't return. Things are spiraling out of control, and once again, he's the little brother, the incompetent child, the weak link.

He needs _guidance_ , he tells himself, not _help_. He's long past the time where he needed Joe's help to tie his shoelaces for him.

If only Joseph would see it that way.

But when John finally reaches the compound, it looks like Joseph isn't gonna be seeing much of anything at the moment. The island is enveloped in eerie, expectant silence, fog swirling around between houses despite it being a late afternoon, and the Faithful are keeping guard around the church. Another vision, then. If that is the case, John can do nothing but wait and wonder why his brother didn't ask him to be here in the first place.

In the church, The Voice speaks, and Joseph listens.

Jacob isn't overseeing their safety this time. The torch has been passed, and, John has to admit, he feels just as safe when he looks up at their new protector. She scouts the area from her vantage point, holding the bright red rifle at the ready, alert and aware, but still calm and collected.

The whole situation is nowhere near as dramatic as the great revelation leading to Joseph's attempted arrest. Hell, Jacob looks almost _relaxed_ when he joins John in his waiting, and the fact that Faith isn't even here speaks for itself.

Even the door to the church isn't closed shut, John notes somewhat belatedly.

"You have finally come," a voice reaches him from within, as if on cue. "Take the final step, John. Come, and pray with me."

When Joseph insists that John pray with him, just the two of them, it's always a telltale sign of an incoming lecture. A reprimand he's heard time and time again. With apprehension settling deep inside him, John obeys. He pushes the door open, just enough to slip through, and closes it firmly behind him.

He isn't scared, he tells himself. Joseph will not hurt him. It'll only be as bad as he'll let it.

This impression is only made stronger by Joseph's choice of topic for his sermon. The Father turns around at the sound of John’s footsteps. Even in the dimly lit church, his exertion is obvious. There’s still traces of it when he speaks, but the certainty and clarity of the message are captivating in their own right. As soon as the words _good shepherd_ are spoken, John knows exactly where this is going, and it doesn't come as much of a surprise when The Father mentions the new deputy.

"This one shall reach atonement," he says, "or the gates of Eden will be shut to you, John. You must overcome your sin, and help her cast away hers, for I have seen what happens if you do not."

Telling Joseph how tired he is of hearing the same complaints without being offered an alternative is fruitless, John has learned by now. Not that he would even _dare,_ anyway. It's not his place to whine, no matter how appealing it may be.

"What makes _this one_ so important?" He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes and shifts focus away from himself, instead. "More important than _my_ salvation?"

"That is your mistake, John." Joseph looks directly at him, expertly deflecting his deflection. There's concern in his eyes still, albeit overshadowed by stern patience. "She is no more and no less important than any one of us. Any of our flock, any of our Family. Even you. Even _me_. We are all equal before the Lord. Suffering of one is the suffering of all, and suffer she shall. A pain greater than even you, my brother, who suffered so greatly, can imagine."

"Does suffering not build perseverance, Joseph?" John shoots back, his own attempt at rebellion. "And character?"

"Suffering without purpose and without end builds _nothing_ and destroys _everything_." Joseph's tone is strict, warning, expectant. "You of all people must understand that."

"Yes," John runs a hand though his hair. A practiced gesture, obvious enough to convey his frustration, and smooth enough to not ruin the styling. "Yes, Joseph."

Silence hangs between them then, and John takes the opportunity to collect his thoughts, get to the point he'd originally came here to make, but his efforts are cut short before he manages to make any progress with that.

"Sloth is a difficult sin to define," Joseph says with no forewarning, "it's not _laziness_ , and you have proven yourself as anything but that. But that apathy, that dejection, the sorrow you carry, they have not left you. I can see them. And so does the Lord.”

“I’m well aware of my failings, brother.”

“Acknowledging is only the first step. This aimless suffering you inflict on yourself and others only pulls you further from the light." John watches his brother close his eyes, brows knit together in what almost looks like a mournful expression. His voice cracks, anguish and fear barely held back, when he speaks again. “I saw you die. And it looked like _mercy_. A _kindness_ in comparison to the torment, misery, and madness that followed the one who survived. You must not let her suffer. You must not, John, you _cannot_ let yourself be dragged back into darkness.”

A lone ray of sunlight peeks though the fog, through the stained glass, and falls right below his feet. It's almost symbolic, John thinks, but not quite. Something is missing.

"Forgive me, Joseph. I will do better."

"I know." This burden weighs just as heavily on Joseph as it does on John. "You must love them, John. This is the only thing you _can_ do. You cannot let your sin prevent that."

When they eventually leave the church, it’s Jacob who greets them. There's a shadow of a grin on his face as he glances up at the former deputy Rook and then back at John. He places a hand on John's shoulder, a fleeting expression of comfort and understanding.

"Try not to drown this one, okay?"

 


	2. Willingly Or Not

 

 

It's funny, Ginny thinks, how she never really saw herself pursuing a career in law enforcement. All her life, she'd been more focused on _preventing_ crimes from reoccurring rather than catching already existing criminals.

Although, loosing an arrow and watching it pin a Peggie to a tree by his shirt, she has to admit she's been missing out. This is much more fun. Not necessarily as emotionally fulfilling, but this change of pace is bound to do her some good. All these years spent working with troubled youths has made her somewhat sedentary. Gained a few pounds, too. And she'd always regretted not having enough time for archery anymore.

The only thing she _can_ complain about, really, is the overabundance of fresh country air. And the lack of showers.

As for the unfolding crisis in the Hope County, Ginny thinks, she'll just roll with the punches. She'd learned that from an early age. And, if anything, this might be the safest place in the country at this point, ongoing religious crusade notwithstanding. When nukes go off, at least the valley will be somewhat shielded from the worst of it by the mountains, and luckily, the county has more than enough holes in the ground to fit the majority of the inhabitants.

The local populace seems to find it ironic that a year ago Ginny moved to Hope County for _safety_ , for a sense of calm belonging and purpose. Sure, it might've not turned out exactly according to plan, and her first choice of community might have been somewhat of a mistake. But despite the fact that no sane person living here feels safe, _she_ does.

Frisking the unfortunate Peggie, Ginny quickly pockets the spare change before snatching her prize, the very reason she'd went out of her way and attacked unprovoked. She unclips a radio from a man's belt, and the Peggie eyes her with bewilderment, opening his mouth to scream.

"Shush," Ginny tells him, pressing her finger against his lips. "There's no need for that. I'm not going to kill you."

The aura of authority she'd learned to project at her former workplace serves her just as well here. Seeing Peggies as nothing more than a bunch of rowdy kids with guns is a conscious choice, and it pays off when the man shuts his mouth, somewhat comically, and continues staring at her with wide eyes.

"You know who I am, correct?" She asks, inspecting the radio. "Just nod, if you do. That's enough."

The man nods.

"Wonderful." It isn't. She'd seen the posters plastered all over the region, and that photo they chose does not do her _any_ favors. "Then you probably know I need to talk to your superior."

A shadow of fear ghosts past the man's face, quickly replaced by carefully crafted neutrality. Of course. Predictably, John's own men are scared of him. This is going to be a cakewalk.

"He's in trouble," she nods, slowly, a small grin playing on her lips, and the man looks sufficiently intimidated. "And I don't mean the handcuffs-and-Miranda-rights kind of trouble. Oh no. The man upstairs is _not_ happy with the recent developments. Which, when you think about it, would mean that _you_ are to avoid killing me if at all possible."

Ginny pulls the arrow from the tree, setting the man free in a show of good faith, and puts it back in her quiver. He doesn't move.

"Go," she gestures at the fields around them, "I need some privacy. You're dismissed."

She leans against the tree and watches the man retreat, first with shaky, uncertain steps, and then bolting across the dirt road and through the fields, into the nearby woods. When his distant silhouette cannot be distinguished from the trees anymore, Ginny makes the call she's been meaning to make for days now.

"Hello, John," she smiles into the radio, "what's a girl got to do 'round here to get herself noticed?"

There's a brief moment of silence on the other end, and she wonders if she managed to surprise him.

"Deputy," John purrs at her, and it almost sounds like he's pleased to hear her. "I wonder, which part of _we'll come for you_ was so difficult to understand?"

"Got tired of waiting," she shrugs, even though she's well aware he can't see her. "You tell me I've been selected, make me feel all special, and then… nothing. I do hope you won't make a habit of empty promises."

"I distinctly remember saying that _you don't have to do anything_ ," John sighs with mock-disappointment. "But then again, it was to be expected. Your sins drive you to commit unspeakable acts, and you're powerless to resist them."

"Unspeakable acts? I figured you'd still be salty about that precious sign of yours, but I'd hardly call that _unspeakable._ "

"Touch it again," John says, and somehow his voice retains the same syrupy sweetness as before, despite the obvious threat, "and I'll have you rebuild it. Piece by piece, you'll work until your fingers are worn to the bone. And when you're done," Ginny can clearly imagine the grin on his face, hell, she can almost _hear_ it when he finishes the sentence, "I'll bury you beneath it."

"This hostility is unnecessary, John, and neither are empty threats," she says, peaceably.

"I'll show you empty threats," John snarls, and the connection is cut for a second. When he pushes the talk button again, he sounds more like his usual charming self. "Alright, deputy. I'll humor you. You wanted to talk? Then talk."

"Not _here,_ " Ginny tells him, taking in her surroundings again. It's near dusk. She'll be damned if she stays out in the cold one more night. Not if she can help it. "I'm not too far off from your ranch. Say the word, and I'll be there."

"It's good to see you're consistent in your desperation, if not in your loyalties." Fuck. She had no idea John had already found out about _that_. "When I decide to invite traitors and deflectors for dinner, I promise you'll be the first one I call."

Fair point. Not that it's gonna stop her.

"Come now." She keeps her tone calm and stern, willing him to listen. Dealing with juvenile delinquents, no matter their actual age, is really all the same to her. "It seems to me like you’re missing a perfectly good opportunity for an ambush. I mean… it's either that, or you are literally too scared to face off a girl. And that couldn't possibly be the case now, could it, John?"

Ginny lets go of the transmitter, static crackling for a moment too long. Maybe she’d underestimated him. Maybe this needs a different approach. Maybe John is too smart to rise to such a childish bait, after all.

She doesn't even manage to finish the line of thought.

"Well. You got me there. Let no one say I don't practice what I preach. _We want you, we accept you, we will take you._ And as it is written, so it shall be done." It's impossible to determine if it's smugness Ginny hears in his voice, or John's signature charm, now turned up a notch. Probably both. "You put on your loveliest dress, and I'll go find my finest suit. Dinner's served at eight. I’ll see you here."

Ginny relaxes with a sigh, her breath visible in the crisp, biting air. The last rays of sunlight creep across the golden wheat fields of Holland Valley.

At least she has a spare couple of hours to wonder if John is brave enough to have an actual conversation, or reckless enough to attempt an ambush.


	3. Mid-Course Correction

 

It's a quarter past eight, and John still hasn't heard a word of alarm from his men.

Even though he'd ordered the guards to be on high alert, he fully expects the deputy to bail on their date. Time passes, and John alternates his glances between the window and the clock. She must've gotten the impression he'd welcome her personally, with open arms and weapons laid down, and the increased security around the ranch dissuaded her of the notion. The deputy strikes John as someone used to getting things her way, served to her on a silver platter, and so, taking the easy way out, she decided not to show at all. If she's a my-way-or-the-highway kind of person, well… It's her loss, really.

Now, John figures, it's only a matter of time until she reaches out with a sarcastic remark or two from a good, safe distance. If she is the kind of woman he pegs her for, there is no way she'd leave the situation without having the last word.

"Oh John," his radio crackles to life, predictably, albeit somewhat earlier than he'd anticipated, " _bold and brave_. I appreciate your invitation." A distant yelp reaches John from the other side, followed by a rustling of branches." And I especially appreciate your _trust_."

The deputy's voice is hushed and hurried, but John still detects the trace of that smug arrogance from their earlier conversation. Even in danger, it seems, she deems it important to project this sense of superiority, this know-it-all attitude, to anyone who cares to listen. John finds it relatable, yes, but amusing all the same.

"Might I remind you, my dear deputy," he purrs, making sure his smile can be heard even through the static, "that it was _your_ idea? You pointed out an opportunity I was missing, and, well… I saw the error of my ways. I'm willing to learn, you'll find. Can you say the same?"

"Oh, I'm learning something new every day," the deputy's whispering turns winded, and John estimates she must be hightailing out of the ranch right about now. "Like today, for example. I learned that John Seed is a coward and a liar, who is, honest to God, scared of talking to a girl."

He snorts and rolls his eyes before pushing the button to respond.

"Is it _wrath_ I hear? It's okay, deputy. We are all sinners, and all of us can repent. Don't hide from your sins. Expose them, show them to the world, and then own up to them. I'm glad to see you're learning that lesson, too."

The response comes in a heartbeat.

"I'm not owning up to any imaginary sins, John. I'm insulting you."

"If that is your goal, you might wanna consider getting a little bit more creative. I've heard worse when I was a _toddler_ ," John laughs. "Come back to me when your insults can outdo my parents'."

When no reply follows, John puts the radio aside. It's ironic, he thinks, to be called a coward by her of all people - a person who chickens out of an appointment at the first sign of difficulty, and leaves the conversation when the topic turns uncomfortable. It's a relief, too - to be validated in his first impression of her. John has always excelled at reading people, which, in turn, has made him excel at finding the best approach to even the most difficult sinners.

And she _will_ be difficult, John makes no mistake about that. Destructive, stubborn, unapologetically smug and petty, _and_ a clever treacherous snake to boot. But everyone has a weakness, John has learned, and hers is so obvious she might as well have worn it as a t-shirt.

If the deputy wants his undivided attention, he’ll be happy to oblige her.

And if he has to work at it, well, it'll only make the victory that much sweeter. There's no value in things that come easy in his life. It's been a tough lesson to learn, and an even more difficult one to teach, often painful, too , for him and Joseph both. But the pain he went through is what really made the lesson stick, after all. He can't wait to impart that knowledge onto the deputy. And the harder she resists, the harder he'll have to scrub her soul, the harder the truth will hit her. She may not know it, but John does - he lived it, he experienced it, and he came out better for it.

And so will she.

All other irritating traits aside, the deputy is making him late for dinner. John almost makes it out of his bedroom when the radio crackles again.

"I have to say, you do have a lovely home," the voice is calm and collected, even cheerful. "And your wine collection is…"

John quickly closes the door and turns the volume down, lest the deputy hears her own voice coming from inside the house. He doesn't let himself panic. Breathe in. He's caught off-guard, yes, but he is far from unprepared, he tells himself. His men are most likely dead, but he is not defenseless. Breathe out.

"…a waste, is what it is. I mean, at least you're following the abstinence rules, which is commendable. But still. All of this, _useless_." There's a sneeze, and the whole situation is damn near surreal, because it seems to come from two places at once. "All this treasure, just slowly drowning in dust."

Without switching the radio off, John mutes her completely. Let her talk, he thinks, toeing off his shoes and making his way down to greet his guest. Let her think she's safe.

Sneaking around in his own house is thoroughly undignified, but ultimately worth it, he concludes, watching the deputy from atop the stairs. She's wandering around the living room, with no sense of danger or urgency to her pace. Something in the way her mess of brown curls sways as she shakes her head in disapproval sparks a feeling of familiarity, and John takes a careful step to the side, praying the floorboards don't creak. The house cooperates with him against the intruder, and his maneuver is as quiet as can be expected.

He catches a glimpse of the deputy's face before she turns on her heel to inspect his bookcase, and -

_Oh._

It's not that he remembers every single person he'd personally baptized. There have been so many at this point, he'd lost count, and there are more important things to commit to memory, if he has to be honest. It's not even that she'd left a particular impression on him at the time, or that he'd known her all that well in the first place.

But John recognizes the woman who, apparently, had wrecked all sorts of havoc across his region. Oh, he recognizes her _immediately,_ and her presence in his home surprises him now just as much as it surprised him a year ago. He should've recognized her voice. Fuck, Faith should have _warned_ him.

Meanwhile, the _deputy,_ as she's now called, unceremoniously sweeps her finger across a shelf, and snorts with disdain at the dust she'd collected.

"I wonder when was the last time you _cleaned_ this so-called home of yours," she says into the radio, her voice dripping with mockery, as she continues, "it’s almost like you don’t even _live_ here."

John takes a deep breath, keeping his hand on a taser he’d wisely picked up on his way to meet her.

“I do.”

In a flash, she turns to him. Reflexively, she pulls an arrow from her quiver, her motions a blur, and shoots. Recognition flashes in her eyes, quickly replaced with panic upon realizing she’s not fast enough to alter the course of her arrow.

She still misses.

John doesn't.


	4. The One That Got Away

 

_The woman he needs to talk to is ridiculously difficult to get a hold of. Days and weeks spent chasing after her, getting told off by countless government employees, hours' worth of voicemails left on her phone.  All his efforts lead nowhere. Each time there's even a narrow chance of catching her when she's available, he seems to miss her by a mere couple of minutes. She does not want to be found, it's clear as day. At least, not by him. She under no obligation to meet with him, or even give him the time of day, and he understands that perfectly. But she is his last resort. His only remaining hope of closing that land deal he's been working on for what's starting to feel like eternity._

_So, he keeps trying._

_He slams the door of the taxi that delivered him in front of the grim, imposing building. Slams it hard. It's unbecoming of him, this lack of decorum, this impulsivity, but he can't help but feel justified when he glances at his all-too-expensive wristwatch._

_Too late. Again._

_The sound is quickly swallowed by the bustle and noise of the city, but a mess of brown hair swaying, a face turned in his direction, a curious glance tossed his way tells him it did not go unnoticed. He looks at the woman in turn, preparing his best glare in case she's one of those sanctimonious do-gooders that seem to always get their noses in other people's business. A scowl freezes on his face for a split second, immediately replaced by his signature smile upon recognizing her._

_He can hardly believe his luck. He gives his watch a second look. 5:17 PM. Even if he'd intended to camp outside her office in a vain hope to catch her leaving, he would've been too late._

_And yet, here she is. Only a couple of feet away from the stairs, she'd been rifling through her purse, evidently looking for an umbrella, when the slamming door distracted her. A vaguely confused and displeased expression on her face, she watches him approach._

_God is with him today, he thinks, not letting his smile falter despite her less than welcoming look. He offers the woman his umbrella and invites her for dinner. He is ready for whatever excuse she offers him this time. He almost anticipates the thrill of charming her out of her decision. He relishes in the thought of doing everything in his power to ensure that. He will wine, and dine, and bribe her, if that's what it takes. Hell, he'll even fuck her senseless if he has to, if all she needs to see reason is a good lay. She will say **yes**. And when she inevitably does, it will make it all worth it._

 

***

 

John's stare is fixed straight ahead. Images from his past flash in front of his eyes, picture-perfect recollections burned into his cornea. He blinks, and the flashes slow, the images settle, superimposing over the deputy's face, merging, until all John is left with is reality.

Reality. It's been less than ideal, lately, for John's liking, so he turns away from it and takes to pacing around the room.

He'll never be rid of her, will he?

When he'd seen her last, he believed himself to be treating her no different than the rest of the flock. He wasn't the one to hear her confession - hell, he hadn’t even made sure there was one at all. There were so many new faces, then. All willing, all believing. So many came looking for purpose, and, well, it wasn't _entirely_ unreasonable that not everyone was placed according to their wishes. He'd dunked her in water and sent her off across the Henbane, telling her to find her purpose there, thinking his lesson in forgiveness concluded.

And yet, here she is - by God's will or by Faith's carelessness - and this time he can't get away with putting her out of sight and out of mind. It makes sense, John thinks bitterly. It's been too easy back then. He didn't suffer enough, didn't fight enough - and so the lesson didn't stick. Her new sins are even more grievous that the ones he'd pretended to forgive her for, she is in need of his help more than ever, and he has direct orders to save her soul. There’s nowhere to hide, no opportunity to cheat the same lesson twice, no other choice but to face his own sin.

John knows he should feel grateful. But he doesn’t. He feels trapped.

John’s pacing brings him full circle, facing the deputy. Tying her to a chair and keeping her blissed-out seemed like the easiest way to deal with the situation, but much like all the attempted solutions in his life, this one isn’t bound to last. _Rip it off like a band-aid,_ John tells himself, over and over, as he stares at her. He has to wake her. It’s not like he can keep her like this indefinitely. Inaction on his part is only going to cause more problems for everyone involved, and the longer he does nothing, the worse it will inevitably be. It’s not like this whole situation he finds himself currently in is anybody else’s fault but his own. Because it always is, isn’t it? His endless pursuit of easy ways out, his refusal to actually _do_ something about his problems, his incompetence and weakness, his fucking _sloth_ –

Just the thought of that word sends him spiraling. Restless, wrathful energy coils and twists in his stomach, and when it lashes out, he's powerless to resist it.

The slap echoes almost as loudly as the door of that taxi.

John nearly feels bad about it, but the deputy opens her eyes, and that's all what really matters. It takes her a couple of seconds to shake off the Bliss – just enough time for John to collect himself. When he smiles at her, it's not forced at all. He had enough practice to make absolutely sure of that.

"Welcome, deputy," he says, not giving her a chance to speak. "Before you ask - yes, this is _exactly_ how I treat my guests. Especially the kind that nearly set my house on fire, kill my men, and drag mud all over the carpet."

Deputy snorts. Her eyes twinkle with amusement, her lips twitch as if to reply, but she evidently decides against it. She settles on some kind of half-smile, unreadable, but clearly devoid of fear.

"Pray tell, what did you think was going to happen? Did you honestly believe you'd knock on the door, have a nice chat, and be on your merry way?"

"Why not?"

Without the radio static in the way, and without mockery tinging it, her voice sounds exactly how he remembers it. Her question is so straightforward and honest it throws him off, and she takes it as an opportunity to continue her point.

"We're adult, civilized people. Besides," her smile widens, "Your men shot first. Maybe you should've clued them in beforehand that they're not supposed to try and kill me, John."

"And of course, the merciful, considerate soul that you are, you retaliate in kind, without so much as a second thought."

There's a small change in her expression, then. The corners of her eyes crease as she bites her lip, ever so slightly, as if willing herself not to laugh, and John thinks he remembers her name.

"…are we still talking about your guards?" The sly smugness of deputy's tone is frustratingly familiar. She is right, after all, and so he disregards the question entirely.

"How long has it been since your last confession?" He asks instead, rolling up his sleeves. There is still work to be done. _Even the most wayward of his flock,_ John reminds himself as he clears the sofa table of dust and expensive knickknacks. _Even as wayward as this one._ It's lucky, then, that his tools of trade are never too far out of his reach, he figures, laying them flat on the table. Who knows just how difficult this one will be?

"I've never confessed, really."

_Fucking knew it,_ John thinks, and apparently the one split second of silence is enough for Ginny - because that's her name, John is sure of it now - to turn this conversation somewhere completely unmanageable.

" Are you… seeing anyone, John?"

Against his own better judgment, he turns to face her, knife in hand.

"That's… hardly an appropriate question. I would say I'm flattered," John lies, eyeing her, "but a sinner's lust doesn't flatter me."

The deputy has the sheer _nerve_ to roll her eyes at him.

"What I meant was - are you seeing a therapist currently? If not, when was the last time you spoke to one?"

"I'm the one who asks questions here, deputy. Seeing how you're the one who's tied to a chair and I'm the one with the knife. And a gun."

"Hey, I thought we were having a conversation," she makes a move as if to throw her hands in the air, but it only comes off as her struggling against the restraints. She settles for a polite smile then, all innocence. "If you're so kind as to offer me _your_ professional help, I figured I'd offer you _mine_."

"Dear Lord. They deputize just about _anyone_ these days, don't they?"

"If you have doubts about my qualifications, John," she sidesteps his obvious jab, serene as one can be in her position, "you are welcome to take it up with Sheriff Whitehorse."

John only becomes aware he's making a face when the deputy grins at him.

"Yes, I'll make sure to express my grievances when Faith finally cleans house and brings him to me." Inexplicably, John doesn't immediately reign himself in. This entire exchange is completely unnecessary, and yet… It's not that she puts him at ease, not really - but it’s as if for the first time in decades, he finds the flow of the conversation natural and effortless. He grins back at her. " You'll forgive me if I don't feel particularly safe when a _shrink_ is serving and protecting this fair county I call home."

"Oh, if anything, I believe this county could use a more… considerate approach." The deputy suggests, conversationally, "not all problems can be solved with a bullet, wouldn't you agree?"

"Big words, coming from a woman who singlehandedly killed dozens of people by now." John turns back to his tools, just enough to keep her on her guard and guessing, and enough still to keep an eye on her.

"Never said I was a pacifist," he sees her shrug in the corner of his field of vision. "And I didn't kill them with bullets, either."

"A hypocrite, then. Wonderful. Hearing your confession will be most… entertaining."

A frustrated huff reaches John from behind, and somehow, he finds it endearing.

"Are you not listening to me? I said not _all_ problems can be solved through violence, not that _none_ can. It's like you hear the words, but make up your own meaning for them."

"Oh, deputy… Or, should I say _, doctor_ …" Savoring every word, John twirls his knife, slowly, almost lazily. He's always had the flair for the dramatics, and for once, he doesn't feel obligated to hold back. "I am a phenomenal listener. I'll let you experience that first-hand, as you tell me about every little sin you've ever committed, no matter how petty, no matter how small… Until we find, together, which one describes you the best." He keeps his eyes trained on her, and finishes his speech with a smile - polite, yet threatening.

Or so he thinks.

John finds it unnerving, honestly, the way his words fail to have the desired effect. The deputy not only appears to be completely unintimidated; she looks… _amused._

"That shouldn’t take too long. All of them."

Somewhere in the distance, John's phone rings.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I mean it. All of the sins. Name any of the big seven, and I'm guilty of it. Mortal sins, venial sins… Let's write them all down, have ourselves a party. The more the merrier," she beams at him. "Though I have to say, none of them weigh particularly heavy on my conscience."

_Unbelievable,_ John thinks, and lets her dig her own proverbial grave, uninterrupted. The phone is still ringing, but the deputy seems to be as determined to ignore it as he is.

"I'm not quite familiar with the rules here, John. Can I only pick one? Can one sin really define a person, wholly and perfectly?" The way she looks at him now, considering her words, sizing him up, equal parts thrilled and hungry, makes John's skin crawl. "But if that's what you really think, then…  Then I'd rather go with _lust_ , like your brother's. Has a much nicer look to it."

The call goes to voicemail, and when Joseph's voice reaches him from across the house, John truly understands the meaning of Divine intervention. When he returns, the deputy is, thankfully, exactly where he'd left her - not that he'd given her any means of escaping - eyeing him with avid, intense curiosity. John feels her gaze on him as he buttons his shirt shut, even as he reaches for his coat. It burns through him, leaving him exposed, and he isn't quite sure what to make of it.

"You'll see yourself out," he tells her as he leaves. Anticipating incoming protests, he adds, "I trust you'll find the way."


End file.
